by Molly Macrae
“Your scarf is beautiful,” I said to the older woman. “Raw silk?”
She had the scarf wrapped around her shoulders in one of those twists that look so artistic and effortless and thrown together for the occasion and that would take me half an hour to figure out. It was a lovely thing, wide and loosely woven, in a range of shimmery blues and greens. Granny would have loved it and the way she wore it.
“It’s silk and something else I’ve forgotten. Don’t tell my sister. She wove it and she’s told me what the other stuff is too many times already.”
“I promise I’ll only tell her she’s very talented. Is she local?”
“No, I’m pretty sure you’re safe.” The woman laughed. “She lives in Minnesota. I know she’d love your shop, though.”
“Thanks. Did you find what you were looking for upstairs?”
“I just needed a quick fix,” the photographer said. “I don’t really have time for needlepoint these days.” She patted her camera case again.
“But I was wondering if you could make a couple of recommendations,” the scarf woman said.
“Sure. As you can see, we have a wide variety of yarns, threads, needles, and notions. Pretty much, if it’s related to fiber or needlework, we’ve got it, and we also do special orders when we can. Or if you need help with a pattern or a particular project, we do that, too.”
I smiled some more. They exchanged looks.
“Well, now we feel bad,” the photographer said. “All your wonderful wares and services and what we’re really hoping is that you can tell us the best place to eat lunch.”
“And can you give us directions to a B and B, if there is one?” the scarf woman said. “We’re on a tight schedule today but maybe we can make it back in the morning to do some shopping. You can help me find something for my sister’s birthday.”
“Oh. Sure, of course.” I nodded away my disappointment. The local yarn shop wasn’t the most obvious place to seek dining and lodging information, but I knew there were travelers and whims of all kinds. “Lunch is easy,” I said. “Nobody can beat Mel’s on Main. Mel has everything from vegan to a daily meat and two veg, plus the best homemade bread and pastries. Go left out our door and it’s toward the end of the block. Your nose won’t let you get lost.”
“Perfect. I think we saw that on the way in. And a B and B?”
“I’m not as up on places to stay. I know there’s a motel out on the four-lane, but ask at Mel’s. Someone there will know about B and Bs.”
“Sounds good,” the scarf woman said. She started to say something else, but the photographer slipped in ahead of her.
“Pictures are okay, aren’t they? Sorry, Sylvia.” She touched the other woman’s arm. “I didn’t mean to interrupt, but the light looks perfect out there right now.” She turned back to me. “If I want to get pictures of the front of the shop, of any of the shops, that’s not a problem, is it?”
“If we don’t see tourists taking pictures we don’t know how to act.”
“And the same goes for freelance journalists taking pictures?”
“Um, sure. As far as I know.”
“Super. I’ll meet you outside, Sylvia. I want to catch the courthouse with that blue, blue sky.” She turned with an “Oh, hi, sorry,” as she dodged the twins.
Mercy followed her to the door and watched her angle across the street. Shirley kept her eyes on the woman named Sylvia, who was still standing at the counter. Geneva draped herself around one of the ceiling fans, which I’d forgotten to turn on with the lights.
“Are you both journalists?” I asked.
“More like trying to be,” Sylvia said, sounding apologetic. “Hi, I’m Sylvia Furches.” She held out her hand and I shook it. “I hope you don’t think we were trying to mislead you.”
I hadn’t until she brought it up. “I’m Kath Rutledge.”
“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Kath. And that was Pen Ledford. We’re taking a class at the community college in Asheville. We have a final project we need to do, and when Pen heard about the, well, about the trouble here yesterday, she was keen to take a run over the mountains to see what we can dig up. I think she has ‘scoop’ on the brain. She’s full of energy and ideas.” She smiled and wiggled her fingers near her ears to illustrate all that energy percolating out of Pen. Then she folded her hands and leaned closer. “Did the murders happen in Blue Plum?”
“Near here,” I said, wishing not for the first time that lies would roll off my tongue convincingly. Settling for being nonspecific would do in a pinch, though. Sylvia and Pen could find out more, easily enough, without my being their source.
“It was shocking news, wasn’t it?” Sylvia said. She sounded genuinely distressed but kept her voice low and serious. Maybe she’d learned to erase signs of titillation in her journalism class. “I remember reading about the situation, the paper protests, several years ago. Embree was his name, wasn’t it? Pen is more up on the details than I am.
I didn’t bother to answer. Of course she knew his name was Embree.
“And then what happened yesterday. Terrible.” She shook her head. “It was at some kind of farm, wasn’t it?”
I nodded noncommittally and darted a few glances to locate the twins. They were looking through the rows of button drawers, making as little noise as possible. Browsing the buttons put them in a good position to hear everything being said at the counter. So far, though, they hadn’t offered to fill in the gaps I was leaving. I wondered how long that would continue.
“You couldn’t give me directions to Cloud Hollow, could you?” Sylvia asked.
“Me? Gosh, no.” That sounded more polite than “absolutely not” or any of the more emphatic variations that sprang to mind. But if Sylvia and Pen knew enough to stop at the local wool shop for directions to Cloud Hollow—by name, no less—did they also know who owned Cloud Hollow and her connection to the Weaver’s Cat? Depending on whom they’d already talked to, they might. Or maybe not, if they needed directions to the farm. Maybe the Weaver’s Cat was their first stop. At least they didn’t seem to know what Debbie looked like. Maybe they didn’t know her name yet, either.
“You’ve never been out there?” Sylvia asked, bringing my zigzagging thoughts back into focus. She was still trying for mildly curious but was no longer pulling the wool over the wool shop owner’s eyes.
“Honestly, Sylvia, you wouldn’t want my directions even if I could remember them to give you. I can’t even follow them. The one time I was out that way I almost didn’t make it back alive I got so turned around. Crossing the river, recrossing the river, re-recrossing the river. It was a nightmare. And the roads? Whoo. Full of twists. Full of turns. And GPS doesn’t even know the place exists.” I should have gone with the rude refusal. Stomping her request flat might have kept me from blathering on, something I’m prone to do when trying to compensate for not lying. Even the twins turned around and stared when they heard me driveling on.
Sylvia considered my overblown answer, head tipped, eyes infinitesimally skeptical. Then she smiled and shrugged and looked over at the twins, making me realize that she was aware of their interest all along. The wily twins were quick to turn away, though, and she didn’t catch their rolled eyes.
“Good Lord, you are pathetic,” Geneva said from her perch on the ceiling fan. “My jaw droppeth.”
“No need to blush, Kath,” Sylvia said kindly. “I think you’re probably a very good and loyal friend.”
She left the shop, leaving me to wonder what kind of friend she’d call me if she knew I was tempted to turn the ceiling fan on full blast to see if anything jaw-dropping happened to my friend up there.
The camel bells got a workout over the next few minutes. The Spiveys left on Sylvia’s heels, but only after Mercy winked at me and Shirley touched a forefinger to the side of her nose. If they assumed I knew what either of them meant by those gestures, they assumed wrong. I wasn’t sure whom I pitied more, Sylvia and Pen, Debbie and her sheep, or myself an
d the shop, if the twins were teaming up with the wannabe journalists.
As soon as the bells quit quivering behind those two, they jingled again. That proved to be one jingle too many for Debbie’s nap. She woke with a start and an exclamation, startling the cat as well as the next customer. This was no ordinary yarn shop customer, though. This was a woman in a tailored, charcoal gray pinstripe suit, a silk blouse, and three-inch heels. She stopped just inside the door and put her hands on her hips, one shoulder slightly forward, as though she’d been practicing since girlhood for the chance to pose like Wonder Woman. She also didn’t beat around the bush.
“Which one of you is investigating Shannon Goforth’s murder?”
Chapter 8
“Keep that cat away from me,” Wonder Woman said, her throat sounding tight and her voice brittle. She was already flushed and breathing hard when she came through the door. Adding fear, allergies, or dislike of cats to that mix wasn’t improving anything.
The cat, of course, took her words as an invitation to come on over and say hi. The woman moved away, putting a display table between them. The cat blinked at her and teased by pretending to follow. She fell for his trick, backing farther away and ready to protect her ankles, but he faked her out by leaping onto the table and appearing at her elbow. It looked to me as though he wiggled his ginger eyebrows at her, but that might have been a trick of the light.
Debbie, looking refreshed from her nap, scooped the cat into her arms. “Kath is the one you want to talk to,” she said. “This guy can stay here and help me take care of customers. Why don’t you two go up to the study, Kath? That way you’ll have complete privacy.”
I looked at our visitor. She needed calming more than she needed a three-flight climb to the attic in her heels. “The kitchen should be quiet. I’ll make tea.”
Geneva loomed over my shoulder as I filled the kettle at the sink. “I’m glad your subconscious doesn’t talk to you the way hers does. She’s making me nervous.”
I glanced over my shoulder at the woman. She’d pulled herself together and stood at the kitchen table, arms crossed. She looked like an aggressive young executive, but maybe that was the way she held herself together in times of crisis. Or maybe it was her lacquered, unnaturally bronze hair and her lethally pointy shoes. I was glad she hadn’t kicked the cat.
“I’m Kath Rutledge, by the way.”
“I know who you are.”
“Oh. You didn’t seem to know when you came in.”
“And then your coworker identified you.” The woman made no move to sit and didn’t tell me her name.
“She’s a tough one,” Geneva said. ““Why don’t you soften her up by offering cute sandwiches or tea cakes?”
“Because there aren’t any,” I said.
“Excuse me?” The woman asked.
“Er, I’m sorry there isn’t anything to offer you with the tea. Will you excuse me for a moment? My phone’s ringing.”
Her eyes didn’t quite believe that. There hadn’t been a peep from a phone.
“Um, it’s vibrating.” I turned my back and blushing face away from the guest and the ghost, pulled the silent and twitchless phone from my pocket, and pretended to check the display before putting it to my ear. “Geneva, hi. No, it’s not a good time to talk.” I kept my voice low, getting into the role, eyes on the floor as though listening. “Sure, sure, let’s get together later and compare notes. Sounds good.”
“Pssst.”
I looked up. Geneva hovered six inches from my nose.
“Aren’t I a genius for inventing telephone communication with the dead?” she asked.
“Pure dead genius. I’m hanging up now.” I pocketed the phone and turned back to the woman. “Sorry to keep you waiting. I’ll just get the tea and you can tell me why you’re here.”
“I turned the kettle off,” she said. “I don’t like tea. I’m going to say what I came to say and then I don’t have any more time to waste. I’m needed at the office.”
“You don’t want to sit?”
“No.”
She wasn’t growing on me.
She looked around the kitchen, taking in the well-worn cupboards and counters, the bundles of dyestuff hanging from hooks, and the wall covered with exuberant projects from our beginners’ classes. I particularly liked the swarm of T-shirts pinned to the bulletin board that a Girl Scout troop tie-dyed with Kool-Aid. From the lift of her lip, Ms. Executive Suit didn’t agree.
“I had you figured wrong,” she said, giving me the same critical going-over she’d given the kitchen. “I thought you were some kind of private detective.”
“Who are you?”
“Carolyn Proffitt. I work at Victory Paper. I was Shannon Goforth’s assistant.”
“Oh my gosh. I am so sorry for your loss. Are you sure you don’t want to sit down?”
“How do you picture sitting down being of any help to me?”
“You’re right, it couldn’t be. Of course.”
“I came here to tell you the facts. Will Embree killed Terry Widener two years ago. The police have always known that. And now they know Shannon was afraid of him. He was calling her and it scared her.”
“How do they know that?”
“Because I told them.”
“How did you know? Did she tell you?”
“I heard her pleading. I heard her tears. I heard her say ‘I’m afraid.’”
“You overheard her talking on the phone?”
“To him!”
“But did she tell you it was Will Embree? Did he have a phone with him out there in the woods? I’m just trying to make sense of this.”
She hesitated, then slammed again. “I’ve told the police, and the only other thing I’m telling you is that it will kill Shannon’s mother if you stir up a bunch of nastiness. She knows he killed her. I know he killed her. The police know he killed her, and…” She ran out of breath at that point and burst into tears.
“Sweetheart,” Geneva said in a pretty decent imitation of Sam Spade, “you need to work on your grilling technique.”
Chapter 9
Carolyn Proffitt’s visit left me feeling subdued but not cowed. I scrounged in a drawer for a notepad and wrote her name and the little she’d told me about herself, then added three bullet points: phone calls; fear; motive for visit—altruistic? I looked at the list, wrote facts across the bottom, and slipped the paper in my pocket. While I scribbled, Geneva bubbled with excitement over her new role.
“I will be a wonderful grilling coach,” she said. “I’ll rush right up to our detective office and sit down at our detective desk and I will try to remember all the best Dragnet episodes for you to study. Joe Friday is extremely competent. He is always interested in facts, too, and I think even you will be able to learn something from him.”
Debbie had put some happy tunes on the CD player while I was away. They were more innocuous than happy, but at least not slow or somber. Turning on the background music was another thing I should have done before unlocking the door. Absentmindedly, I pulled the paper back out of my pocket and added a note to include the ceiling fans and music in my shop-opening routine. Debbie looked up from winding some of the Icelandic wool into balls. The only customer in sight was an older man leafing through a binder of sweater patterns.
“Everything okay?” Debbie asked. “Where’s…?”
“Everything’s fine. She went out the back door.” Nodding at the customer, I added, “I’ll tell you about it later.”
Hearing my voice, the man turned and smiled. He was older than I’d first thought. His thinning hair was so white it was almost invisible, and he was almost as thin himself. The skin on his face and the backs of his hands was taking on that delicate, papery look of beyond seventy. His wrinkles and age spots pushed him past eighty. He was upright and clear-eyed, though, and his white beard and moustache were clipped with precision.
“You’re Mr. Berry, aren’t you?” I asked. “You are! Oh, I haven’t seen you in ye
ars.”
“Kath. Look at you. Ivy’s little sprout. The world changed in the blink of an eye, didn’t it? You’re all grown up and Ivy’s gone, but I see she lives on in your smile and bright eyes.”
“And Granny always warned me about your smooth tongue.”
“She broke my heart.” He shook his head and I could believe she had. “I was on my boat when I got the news,” he said. “I am so sorry. After your grandfather died, if I’d had my way, she would have come away on that boat with me. Did you know that?”
I thought of the times she’d mentioned him in passing and clucked her tongue. “I’m not sure she ever thought you were serious.”
“I might have been, if I’d thought there ever really was a chance. She was happy enough going out for the occasional meal, a contra dance now and then, an evening stroll. But she wasn’t about to leave her pots and kettles of dyes or the Weaver’s Cat for two or three months at a time to sail with an old coot. And I wasn’t about to give up my boat. Besides, she said she had all the yarn she needed in her life and didn’t need one more.” He laughed and I knew I was supposed to laugh, too, because I remembered hearing Granny say it and chuckling afterward.
“Ah,” he said, “you don’t know the joke, though, do you?”
As I shook my head, the camel bells jingled and half a dozen chattering women flocked in.
“Your hands are full now,” he said, “but will you have supper with me Thursday night?”
“I’d like that.”
“Good. Shall we say seven, then, at Mel’s? I’ll bore you with the legend of Yarn Berry and we’ll lift a glass of Mel’s best house red to Ivy.”
